


The Gift

by tmelange



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-29
Updated: 2011-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:39:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>University student Clark Kent is on a field trip to Gotham City where he meets a creature of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> The story was written for the [World's Finest Slash](http://wfslash.livejournal.com/) LJ comm's 2008 fanzine project called The Greatest Gift.

“Small and narrow,” Jason grumbled as the group settled into their row in the middle of the orchestra section.

“It’s an old theater,” Clark agreed, folding himself into his seat. He was glad Tammy was on his left and Meredith on his right. They were both petite, and their size gave him more room for his long legs.

“Everything in this city is old.”

“I kind of like it.” Clark shrugged. Gotham City was certainly not the widely spaced, modernly designed city of Metropolis, but it had its own inimitable gothic charm. Clark couldn’t bring himself to disparage a city with so much character, even if the buildings were perhaps too closely placed and the shadows a bit too long.

It was his first visit to the East coast, a seven-day field trip with his theater class from Metropolis University over the Christmas break that was supposed to introduce him to _real_ theater, which was, apparently, very much unlike the Midwestern variety. There were fifteen students in the group, and this was the first performance on their schedule. Clark arranged himself more comfortably in the small space, and waited for the show to begin.

Midway through the second act, a strong and certain feeling came over him, as if someone was watching, as if eyes were upon him. It was silly, really. The theater was dark and everyone’s attention was on the stage, but, as time passed, the sensation only increased, and Clark found himself looking around, over his shoulder, up at the tops of the walls where the private boxes hung, trying to identify the source of this odd frisson. It was there—in the first box with the best view of the stage that Clark thought he saw a dark silhouette turned in his direction rather than towards the stage.

Clark squinted up at the box, contemplated using his x-ray vision to look through the wood and metal to see who was up there, but quickly discarded the idea as stupid.

The strange feeling persisted, however, pricking his skin like an onslaught of needles, increasing in intensity until the feeling overwhelmed him and he thought he surely would suffocate if he didn’t escape from the small space and the press of people on each side. Clark got to his feet in a hurry, stumbled over the other people in his row until he was in the aisle and making his way into the lobby. Once there, he closed his eyes and leaned against the wall by the door, trying to catch his breath.

“Are you okay?”

The deep voice startled Clark’s eyes open. There was a man standing at his side, dark-haired and impeccably dressed.

“I...” Clark shook his head. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“The show isn’t what you expected?”

One eyebrow arched upwards, and eyes in a pale and perfect face watched him with veiled amusement. Those eyes were blue now, blue and sharp like tinted ice, yet, surely, when he had opened his eyes only a moment ago, they were dark?

Some instinct made Clark back away.

“No, the show’s great. Just too many people.”

The man nodded, ignoring Clark’s retreat and leaning against the wall. “It is a bit claustrophobic in there, with the seats so close together. I tried to get them to understand that expecting people to sit for such an extended length of time in such uncomfortable quarters is not good for repeat business, but the conventional wisdom holds that the theater is small, and we must cram as many people into the limited space for each performance as possible.” The man shrugged.

“You tried?”

“I’m on the theater’s board of directors.” The man waved a white-gloved hand. “I hardly have time for it these days, but a Wayne has been on the board of this theater since the seventeenth century, and as the last Wayne, I’m rather resigned to it.”

“Wayne?”

Clark wanted to smack himself. Surely he could at least form complete sentences?

“Bruce Wayne.” The man extended a hand, which Clark took but then snatched back as if he’d been shocked. “I think the attitude is a by-product of the city’s robust tourism industry,” the man continued. “Always a new audience, and the show must go on, and all that, even if everyone must be packed inside like sardines. But you try explaining basic business concepts to a bunch of artistic types.”

“I…”

“Are you going back in?” Bruce Wayne tilted his head speculatively as Clark floundered. “You know what—come with me.”

The man turned and headed towards the staircase.

“Mr Wayne, I—“

A glance over his shoulder. “Call me Bruce,” he said before he continued on his way.

Clark seemed to have no choice but to follow.

* * *

They arrived at a blood red curtain, in the upper reaches of the theater. Bruce pushed it aside and shepherded Clark into a private space overlooking the stage, the very same box that Clark had been so sure held the person who had been furtively watching him all evening. The knowledge that he was now with the exact man who had incited his paranoia in the first place made him nervous, so nervous, he blurted out, “You were watching me.”

Now, a full-fledged smile instead of the small quirk of the lips that had marked their conversation until now. A finger to lips to tell him to keep his voice down and a nod in the direction of the stage to emphasize the point. Then the hand on his arm, pushing him down into one of the two seats, made him completely forget his accusation with an onset of hypersensitivity at every juncture where their bodies now brushed against—shoulder to shoulder; at the knee; thigh against thigh. Clark thought it was ridiculous and embarrassing to be so aware of the person sitting at his right side, but he couldn’t seem to control his reactions.

It wasn’t until the lights came up at intermission that they were able to resume their conversation. Bruce turned to him, again with that enigmatic smile and those eyes that seemed to go from deep shadow to cold light, and continued as if they had never been interrupted by the performance or the tension that had only increased as they sat in silence right next to each other.

“I’m guilty as charged,” Bruce said. “I was watching you. You are the tallest person in the orchestra section tonight, and I think I explained my interest in the economics of the situation. At the next board meeting, I will be armed with the story of the young college student—a tourist from the Midwest where they grow them quite big—who had to rush from the performance with an onslaught of claustrophobia. The fact that you were uncomfortably folded in that seat like a pretzel might not matter to them, but the fact that you missed half of the second act might be suitably appalling to get their attention.”

Clark blushed—hard. Of course there was a perfectly innocuous reason for a man like Bruce Wayne to be watching him. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but obviously…

“How did you…?”

“Know that you’re a student? That you’re from the Midwest?”

Clark nodded.

“An obvious deduction. The size of your group. The clear group dynamics. The…jeans you’re wearing. Your accent.”

Again, Clark couldn’t help the flush of heat to his face.

“That blushing—it must be inconvenient.” An arched brow. “Though, I suppose your girlfriend might find it rather irresistible.”

“I—no.” Clark shook his head. “No.”

“No, she doesn’t find it endearing?”

“No, I…don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Really?” Bruce Wayne sat back in the far corner of the seat and crossed his legs. His left arm was draped along the top of his own chair and his fingers just reached Clark’s, where they drummed a rapid staccato against the wood. “That’s surprising. I would think you would be quite popular. Your eyes are…unique.”

Clark wanted to say: _My eyes? **Your** eyes._ But he didn’t. He was sure he’d never be as smoothly debonair as the man sitting next to him. Better to not even try. Likely, it would come off the wrong way, and then what would he do?

“I think it has something to do with my personality,” Clark mumbled instead.

“Trust me, it’s just a phase,” Bruce said. “You’ll come into your own soon enough, and then every girl who passed you over will wish she had had enough foresight to snag you early.”

“Yeah. And I suppose you’re an expert because when you were in college you couldn’t get a date to save your life.”

Now Bruce was smiling widely, the flash of white teeth and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes fit his face perfectly, but Clark had the feeling it was an expression too little used.

“My college education was a bit…unconventional, and I have rarely had the luxury of divorcing my person from my status, at least not for long enough for any girl with a mother to consider rejecting me.” Bruce shrugged a shoulder. “But I am a student of human nature, and I do know anyone would be crazy to let you get away.”

Clark ducked his head. He didn’t know what to say—or if a response was required at all. Fortunately, the lights dimmed and the performance began, and the awkward silence was consumed by settling into their seats to watch. There was so much more room in the private box as compared to the orchestra section, but there was still a heat radiating from his right side, where the extra space seemed not to affect the lack of space between them at all. Eventually, the heat became comfortable, companionable rather than nerve-wracking, and Clark relaxed into it. He found it was quite enjoyable watching the show like this, and he didn’t miss the camaraderie of being in a group one bit.

It was at the top of the final act that his companion stiffened incrementally. If Clark hadn’t been sitting next to him he might not have noticed. Bruce turned to him, leaned in so his lips were close to Clark’s ear, whispered—

“You’ll have to excuse me. I just remembered something critical and time sensitive. If I don’t—“

“That’s okay—“ Clark turned his head quickly, preparing to get up and leave with his host, but his nose brushed against Bruce’s cheek and his lips came dangerously close to making their own embarrassing connection. Their appalling proximity made Clark freeze in place.

Bruce pulled back, straightened, and got to his feet. He loomed over Clark, staring down at him… _regretfully?_

“Stay,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of the show. And, please, excuse my rudeness.”

With that, he turned and exited the box.

The rest of the performance went by in a haze. Later, all Clark could remember was that he had stayed in the box until the end, then he found his classmates milling about in the lobby and joined them for a late dinner and the run of Gotham. He dodged every question about where he had disappeared to during the performance. For some reason, he didn’t want to share the fact that he had met someone and spent time with a stranger for no other reason than his presence had been requested. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed or ashamed. The way he had spent his evening was simply…personal…and didn’t need to be scrutinized too closely.

But before he went to sleep, in his hotel room at two in the morning, he took a few minutes to open his laptop and jot a few notes about his day in his journal.

_I met this man at the theater. Bruce Wayne. He’s unlike any other man I have ever met. I wonder…_

It was then Clark realized: he hadn’t even given the man his name.

* * *

The next morning it was sightseeing and a matinee performance at another theater. Clark was amazed at how easily his expectations had become distorted out of all proportion to reality with just the slightest provocation, because even though Clark knew it was ridiculous, he couldn’t help scanning the upper reaches of the theater and the private boxes for…who knows what. Of course, this was a completely different venue and the boxes were all empty in the afternoon, anyway. Just a day ago he had been perfectly satisfied with this trip, and now, today, he was completely dissatisfied. Wound up and replaying in his mind all the things he could have done and said last night that he hadn’t—and _if only he could have the night back to do all over._

By dinnertime, Clark had mostly stopped castigating himself. His professor had arranged for a group meal at a popular Italian restaurant, and as they were seated at three tables that had been arranged to fit sixteen, Clark felt he was completely over his troubles. He ordered spaghetti and meatballs, made a bit of a fool of himself by getting some on his shirt before he had made it halfway through. His mom’s voice was in his ear, telling him he had better not ruin one of his ‘good’ shirts, so Clark excused himself to the bathroom. His classmates were raucously enjoying themselves, and his impending absence made no impression.

It was as he was exiting the bathroom, still rubbing at his shirt and making a bad situation worse, that he glanced across the room and saw… _Bruce Wayne_ …sitting at a secluded table, where one would only notice him from a certain angle. Clark froze.

How… _amazing._ What were the odds? Clark knew he needed to start moving, but in which direction?

Not giving himself time to consider his decision too closely, he headed in Bruce’s direction and stopped awkwardly when he reached the table, at a complete loss for words. Fortunately, Bruce looked up from his newspaper at just the moment when Clark had decided to flee, and captured him with those sharp blue eyes.

“I was wondering whether you were going to come over or were going to ignore me,” he said in a voice deeply speculative. “I would have let you go.”

“I—wanted to thank you,” Clark said in a rush. “For the box seat. It was—I…it was comfortable.” So lame. If Clark had known he could be so lame—

“Sit.” A wave of a hand, no gloves this time, just perfectly manicured fingers, long and graceful.

Clark almost fell into the offered seat.

“Can I get you something?”

“No—I…what are you doing here?”

“This restaurant is a terrible tourist trap,” Bruce responded negligently. “I figured if I waited long enough you were bound to show up.”

“You were waiting for me?”

“If I were, would it bother you?”

“No—I mean…I guess—“

“I didn’t say I was,” Bruce interrupted. “Waiting for you. The fact is the chef is a close friend of mine. Even though the…atmosphere here is not exactly to my taste, I make it a point to eat here frequently. Otherwise, I hear no end of it.” Bruce pulled at his earlobe. “But finding you again is a welcome surprise.”

Clark looked down at his hands. They were resting on the white linen tablecloth. He expected to see the shaking, much in the way the rest of him seemed to be vibrating, but his hands were as still as stone. He expanded his hearing, just a bit, to make sure no one at his table had missed him yet. Then he breathed in, gathered his courage and looked up.

“I did want to thank you. Seeing the show from the box was such a completely different perspective—besides being more comfortable. We went to the matinee today, and I was really able to notice the change in the acoustics comparatively, and, of course, the view of the stage—“

“Which show did you see? The matinee performance is a horrible way to see theater.”

 _“Les Miserables._ And it wasn’t so bad. I do think the afternoon show lacks some of the energy of the evening performance but the tickets are cheaper, so I guess it’s a tradeoff.”

Bruce raised his coffee cup to his mouth as the waiter came over to the table. “Some things are of the night, and should sleep peacefully in the light of day. Theater is one of those things.” An eyebrow went up. “They have excellent chocolate cake here. Will you join me?”

Clark nodded as the waiter ducked his head to hear Bruce’s instructions and then moved away. “You make it sound alive.”

“In a way it is.” Bruce set his coffee cup down. “So how do you like Gotham? Some would say she is very much alive, too.”

“I love the city,” Clark said enthusiastically. “Though I’m not quite used to it yet.”

“It is certainly much different from Metropolis.”

Clark startled. “How did you—?”

“Your classmate has on a Metropolis University sweatshirt. It was but a small leap from there.”

Of course. Clark settled back in his seat. “Metropolis is…not like Gotham. But,” Clark rushed to add, “I love the city _because_ it’s so different. It has…style and character.” Clark smiled. “The shadows have shapes and even the gargoyles are cool.”

“Yes,” Bruce agreed, tugging at his ear and smiling. “The gargoyles are rather cool. When I was young I always thought I wanted to be one of those gargoyles when I grew up. To be able to look down on everyone from such a lofty height, to be so enigmatic.” Bruce coughed lightly into his hand. “But it was a phase. I quickly grew out of it.”

“Good thing,” Clark said, under his breath. “Gargoyles are supposed to be _ugly.”_

Bruce laughed out loud at that as the waiter arrived with two plates of chocolate cake, milk for Clark and more coffee for Bruce. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bruce said, as the waiter moved away.

“Good.” Clark might not be the most charming guy in the world but he hoped the man across from him didn’t miss the fact that he had _meant_ to pay him a compliment. Of course, it didn’t seem as if Bruce missed much.

“Is the dessert to your liking?”

“It’s excellent. Thank you. And I’m glad the waiter brought the milk.”

Bruce leaned across the table, lowered his voice. “I figured you for a milk drinker.”

“You…figured?”

“It’s a talent. I study people, and you read like an open book. Besides, you can’t have chocolate cake without something to wash it down.”

“You’re drinking coffee.”

“I’m older than you. You’re still growing.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Two more years of bone development.”

“I think my bones are fully developed.”

Bruce sat back and crossed his legs, studying Clark over the rim of his cup. “Of course, you would _think_ so.”

Clark laughed, and after a moment, Bruce joined him. He polished off the rest of his cake and pushed his chair back from the table. He had just caught the first inquiry about his missing status from one of his classmates, wondering if he had managed to flush himself and if it would be wise to let the waiter clear away his plate. It was time for him to go.

“I have to—“

“Get back to your classmates. I have to head out myself, much as I enjoyed our time together.”

Bruce got to his feet, draping his coat elegantly over one arm. Clark followed, and the abruptness of the change in the atmosphere put him back on edge.

Bruce extended a hand. Clark took it, found it impossible to let it go.

“It was a pleasure seeing you again—“

“My name—“

“Is Clark. Clark Kent. I know.” Bruce gently disentangled their hands. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Clark.”

Clark watched as Bruce Wayne turned and made his way out of the restaurant.

* * *

The next day passed in a haze of expectation and ended with a cold dose of startling disappointment. What should he have expected? To see Bruce Wayne around every corner, to turn and find blue eyes watching him? To study a room and see his face in every shadow? It was ridiculous, fanciful, but he couldn’t help himself.

The day after that he realized how truly impossible it was to map out a course of action to accidentally bump into a famous person. Of course, Clark had certain advantages, but it went against everything he had learned was best to use his abilities for frivolous matters, or even to use them more than was absolutely necessary. He had been hiding for so long, and his life in Smallville had been narrowly circumscribed by parents who loved him and who worried every day that someone was going to take him away and lock him up in a lab somewhere. The only way he had convinced his parents to let him go away to college, to live on his own for the first time in the campus dormitories, was to promise to keep an even tighter reign on his powers. There could be no waking up in the dorm room while floating three feet above his bed, no accidental uses of his super strength, no bursts of super speed to catch a glass falling off a table, no burning a hole in the wall because he got excited. He had to live like a normal person, _be_ a normal person, and that meant leaving certain things alone—like Bruce Wayne—because no _normal_ college student in town for a week would have access to someone of that caliber.

But it didn’t stop him from writing about it, _wanting_ it, but by the end of the fourth day, he had again resigned himself to reality.

After the show on the fifth day, a splinter group decided the waterfront and the amusement pier that jutted out into the East River was the place to spend the late night, and even though it was cold and few of the rides would be operational, there was still the arcade and the vendors, the Ferris wheel and the laser tag arena. Clark decided to join them. The other group was headed for a popular nightclub, and Clark really wasn’t in the mood for loud music and the press of people.

Two hours later, he was almost sorry he hadn’t simply decided to go back to the hotel. He was overcome by a pressing ennui that had him wandering further and further away from the center of activity. As he moved down the boardwalk, and as the amusement pier became small behind him in the distance, he could almost say he felt compelled to keep walking in this certain direction, to keep moving away from the crowd that did not contain the only person he wanted to see. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, sent a quick text message to one of his friends, saying that he was heading back to the hotel, and that they shouldn’t worry about him.

And even though he was alone, in the spiraling darkness of an unfamiliar city, coming fast upon the deserted end of a dilapidated boardwalk, he wasn’t worried. After all, he had all of his abilities to shield himself from danger, and to thwart actual danger was one of the only reasons he was permitted to use his powers, to be who he actually was without feeling guilty or like he was letting his parents down. So, perhaps, he was courting danger, but it really wasn’t a worthy substitute.

There was a streetlight. There was a man leaning against the streetlight.

Clark knew the man was trouble when he glanced in his direction. Eyes. They were red—not blue or brown or green. Not red-rimmed. Red irises. Like an animal out of a story of the supernatural. Those eyes froze him in place. If he wanted to move, he wouldn’t have been able to. His feet felt like they were buried in concrete. But, anyway, _he didn’t want to move._

Some inner part of himself was aware enough to panic.

Ten yards separated them. Clark watched as the man closed that distance, stalked towards him like a predator. From the shadows to his right, another man materialized, then another, and another, but they kept their distance, in a loose ring on the periphery. If Clark had had even a bit of bodily control, now would have been the time to escape: to run, to bludgeon, to burn his way through, but he was frozen in place, and the man’s hand was upon him, thumb against his cheek, hand lightly settling at the back of his neck. He leaned in, placed his nose right behind Clark’s ear, inhaled.

“So sweet,” the man said. “Untouched.”

Clark tried to shiver. The automatic movement was stilted, aborted.

“I might not want to share him, brothers.”

Circling, a hand trailing. Then again the soft caress of a cheek, the fingers that moved his hair out of his eyes. “Remarkable. How is it no one has claimed you?”

A flash of teeth, the red flick of a tongue as it passed across his jawline, down his neck and over to his ear, and to the strong pulse of the vein there. A sharp pain, the puncturing of skin that had never been punctured. Clark would have cried out if there was anything left to him that would respond to his command, but as the blood flowed quickly out of him and he was pulled down to the pavement with his attacker whose knees had buckled in rhapsody, he knew there would be nothing left to him at all.

It was in the depths of this disconsolate haze that everything changed.

Clark would remember what happened next in a swirling series of impressions, shadows that materialized, a _shadow,_ dark and overpowering, _wings,_ raining hell down on his attackers. When it was over, the shadow changed and became familiar, and a face was revealed from behind a mask. _Bruce._

Eyes that shifted from black to blue as arms gathered him up.

“Clark.”

Clark closed his eyes, felt the cold listlessness of too much blood loss. “This shouldn’t—it can’t happen to me.”

“No one is immune.”

Clark tried to shake his head. The pain—it was incredible. _“Not me.”_

“Lay still. You’ve lost too much blood, and I…”

Bruce closed his eyes, and Clark inhaled sharply as the light he had focused upon was hidden away. It was then that he knew he was dying.

Bruce breathed in, then his eyes opened again, glinting with a dark resolve. “It has been a long time since I’ve had to do this,” he said. “But the infection will spread, and I can’t—I can’t lose you like this.” He moved closer, and Clark thought for one endless moment that Bruce was going to kiss him, but those lips settled against his cheek, and moved along the curve of his jaw to his ear. “I promise I won’t hurt you,” Bruce whispered into the darkness and the red flow that was his life’s blood, “and if I do…Clark…. _forgive me…”_

This time, the penetration was bearable. This time, there was no sharp pain, no violent rending, only the gentle movement as their bodies rocked together, the sweet sensation of being outside of himself and further inside all at once, of being in two distinct but familiar places at the same time.

As Clark’s eyes lidded down for the last time, he could feel Bruce reluctantly pull away.

“My God— _Clark. My Clark._ No wonder I want you, can’t stay away from you,” he said, burying his face in Clark’s hair. “There is _sunlight_ in your veins.”

* * *

Clark awoke in his own hotel room, and for a minute he thought he was waking to reality from a bad dream, but then the moonlight through the diaphanous curtains shifted shadows, and he could tell that he wasn’t alone. Quickly, he was up against the headboard, knees to his chest.

“Wha-what are you?”

“Vampire.”

“You took off my clothes.”

“They were covered in blood.”

That seemed to be the limit of his ability to put words to what he was feeling. Instead, he put his hand to his neck, to the bandage there.

Bruce moved across the room, sat on the edge of Clark’s bed. “You were attacked by vampires,” he said. “I killed them. That’s what I do.”

“But—“

“I’m not like them.”

Clark nodded. Somehow, that was obvious.

Closer, Bruce shifted marginally closer to him on the bed, as if he were testing Clark’s reaction. When Clark didn’t move away, didn’t object, Bruce shifted close enough to touch, running fingertips along an exposed collarbone, reverently.

“I’m going to make love to you now,” he said simply. “You cannot be what you are in Gotham. I would never have—I would have let you go. But you carry my mark now, and I won’t have you in danger.”

“You saved me.”

A hand caressed his cheek, reluctantly, like Bruce wanted to stop himself—but couldn’t.

“This will protect you.”

The blankets were thrown back, until Bruce could pull Clark down on the bed. It was strange because Bruce was still dressed in his odd black bodysuit and Clark was mostly naked but Bruce’s hands were all over him, stroking languidly across the landscape of Clark’s chest, and up to his face, and through his hair, like he couldn’t get enough of touching him.

“I’ve never done this—“

Bruce leaned over him, captured his lips in a kiss, teased them until they opened in surprise.

“Not even this,” Clark whispered, breathless.

“I know.”

“You know everything,” Clark sighed as a hand found the waistband of his boxer shorts and fingertips skimmed his length.

“I don’t know as much about you as I thought. Tell me everything.”

And Clark…did. Around kisses slow and sweet, deep and long, and to the tune of fingers that played his body as he vibrated to their gentle strumming, musically. As Clark lost all connection to rational thought, and his narrative stuttered to a halt and his back arched, he was relieved to find he wasn’t the only one practically out of his mind for waiting. Bruce’s eyes were brilliant in the dark, and hands were replaced by lips that adored every plane and valley of his body even as they whispered urgent instructions against his skin.

“That’s it—right there ... _Clark.”_

And later, in the heat between joined bodies, tongue lapping at the sweat on his shoulder—

_“Clark—my Clark. For you I hunger.”_

Even the onset of morning couldn’t stop their lovemaking, it was so…desperate, so filled with an insatiable appetite to be deeper, to have more. Bruce simply closed the heavy outer curtains that kept it night-like in the room while Clark called out, “Go without me. I’m sick,” to anyone who decided to knock on his door. And, slowly, after many unquenchable hours, the times between became longer and longer, and there was a return to the reverent stroking that had started it all. Soon it would be morning on the seventh day, the day he was supposed to leave Gotham City, and Clark knew everything was about to change.

“I could stay here—“

“You don’t belong here.”

“But you want me—“

“You are still too young.”

Rebellious, now. “I wasn’t too young—“

“This was thrust upon us. I wouldn’t have chosen this life for you—and now that we have no choice I say we will postpone this fate for as long as possible. You have many more days in the sun…”

 _My love._ Clark wanted him to say it, but knew, without knowing how he knew, that Bruce would not admit something that would undermine the decision he had just made. Instead, Bruce pulled him close and kissed his anger away. Later, when they were once again spent, Bruce did give him something more.

“Never again did I think I would stand unmasked in the light of the sun. There is a part of you inside of me now, a piece of your brightness, as there is some of my darkness in you. One day, you will know what that means. I hope—I hope you will not hate me when that day comes.

“Hate you?” Clark mumbled as his eyes lidded down and he drifted off to sleep, “Silly bat. _I love you...”_

* * *

Clark Kent boarded the train out of Gotham City, sat with his face pressed against the window as he watched the beauty of the sunset over this strangest of cities, where the light and the dark crashed like waves against the rocks. Here came the dark, and the man who was _of_ the dark. Here, in Gotham, where vampires were real, but not all of them…evil.

* * *

Bruce Wayne stood at the edge of the cliff, on the grounds of his estate, watching the stars and the moon and the night sky while his mind flew after Clark, never lost him as the bright one left his city. Wherever he might go, Bruce knew, he would come upon him again, by design or by accident. They could not be parted.

 

_finis_


End file.
